Dad

I took Dad to the Safeway last week after Dialysis to pick up a few things. I should have known better than to do this after dialysis when the process of having ones blood in the wash cycle, interchanging bad for good, usually wipes him out, but he wanted to stop so I did. Of course, without the benefit of a whole lot of energy, he stayed in the car. I hurried through the isles picking up some of this and a little bit of that until I'd gotten everything on my mental list. I'd just reached the car when the passenger side of the door opened up and Dad leaned out. "Angie?" he bellows. "Right here Dad," I responded as I opened the car on the driver side. "I want to go home," he says. Then he looks at me obviously peeved and says, "I was calling you, didn't you hear me?" I'm completely baffled and very disturbed. "Dad, I was in the Safeway store, how could I hear you?" He said, "Because I called you." He was looking back at me as if that made all the sense in the world.

Two months ago Dad was handling his own business, paying his bills, driving himself to doctor's appointments, giving himself insulin shots; now he can barely see or understand enough to fill the needle; can no longer drive at all; and so confused day and night merges into one really long morning, which means he's drinking coffee all day when before it used to be, perhaps, two cups in the morning, which is contributing to an increased heart rate. Sometimes he looks at me, and I can see his confusion and the moment when he's trying to identify who I am, in a mind that is betraying him.

When Dad was physically and mentally in a much better state, he told us he never wanted to be put in a facility; that he wanted to stay in his home. I’m trying with my entire being to honor that, to honor him. But it’s difficult, because a part of me wants to do what I feel is in his best interest, and then there’s the part of me that is driven to give him what he’s made clear to all that he desires most at the end of his life. To live and die in his own home, surrounded by his things, i.e. the flashback on the walls of family moments, his precious coffee pot -- "best smell in the morning is coffee brewing," he commented once while in the nursing facility -- his recliner positioned in front of the television so he can watch hours of the History channel, Andre Rieu, episodes of Friends, and a couple of Lifetime chick flicks on DVD. These things bring him comfort.

I'm terrified that fate is my enemy and something will happen to limit my choices to keep him where he's most comfortable. But I have to tell you, I'm a stubborn lady, and with all that is inside my heart, I will do everything in my power to keep him where he is.

At 79 years of age, Dad deserves respectfully, to live and die as he chooses. We all do.

God help me, to continue to help Dad and to honor his wishes.